Tomorrow the Nazis Come
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
by Eva Heydrich & Amanda Storm
"Let justice be done, though the heavens fall."
-- William Watson
It is a crisp autumn day, a space of time that lulls a man into
believing, if just for a moment, that Adam is still in his
paradise and all is right with the world. But today, as
yesterday, a line of refugees stream through our village like
filthy heralds of destruction. They tell me that the Nazis are
coming. I am amazed at how little these people ask for.
They simply shake their heads at my starched, white shirt
and my little house, with its fresh thatch, and my beautiful
vegetables. I see only darkness and the hints of a barren,
hopeless nostalgia in their faded eyes.
I have prayed for a miracle, but my final hopes were dashed
when I saw that our soldiers had thrown their weapons away and
joined in the exodus. I could follow their example, but to what
safe haven would I flee? East, towards the Russians? Them or the
Germans, it will amount to the same thing in the end.
I am a God-fearing man of course, despite what the bored old
women say about my never remarrying. The new priest told us that
the Devil is the prince of this world, where he will hold sway
until Armageddon. (At first I thought that I was a witness to
the final confrontation but this cannot be, for where marshal
the armies of Light?)
Before he died, my father told me that he survived the Great
War without a scratch because of something a one-armed man told him
in a dream. He told Pater to tattoo certain symbols on this body,
which would completely protect him from mines, bullets or anything
Fate might wish to throw his way during that war. Now my father was
the sort of man who took his dreams more seriously than most men, so
he did as the cripple told him and sure enough, he came through many
a bloody battle without so much as a hangnail. At least to hear him
tell it. Pater made me write down the formulae and symbols, which
had served him so well. I did what I was told, even though I thought
it heresy, because he was my father and had seen something of how
things stand in the world. Now more than ever I respect his wisdom
and his memory.
Like most of the men in our town, I have spent many hours
at the altar, beseeching the Lord for help or at least understanding,
but He is as silent as a frozen mausoleum in the grips of a pagan
December. I told the elders that someone has to do something. Someone
has to stand up to those bastards, but they just say there is nothing
to be done but to put our trust in God, submit to the Germans when they
come and hope for the best. I pointed out that "God helps them who
help themselves," but the so-called wise men of our village just bow
their heads and walk away. Merciful God and the Saints! Those
wretches have already given up. They are already dead!
Fortunately I know what steps need to be taken. I will paint the
wards on my body. Then I will go out and confront the huns before
they reach my doorstep. I was doubtful at first, because I drew the
prescribed symbols on a bit of paper, then while chanting the words
my father made my memorize, I threw the scrap into my cooking fire
as a test. The flames consumed that paper before my eyes, reducing
it to so much ash.
But last night the one-armed man came into my dreams and
reassured me that everything was just as my father had told
me. My remembrance of the dream is all shadows and dark edges, but
I learned that the symbols would only protect human flesh - and then
only during time of war! Plus I must have absolute faith in their
efficacy. He told me that both the Devil and God are cut from much
the same cloth - they both demand a quite bit of faith, only the
former gives freely of his bounty in this life and not just in the
next. I am confident that the apparition speaks the truth because
my father had this dream and he survived the "war to end all wars."
Tonight I will adorn my body with my father's mystical protections
and at dawn I will chant the words of power to the rising sun. Then
tomorrow the Nazis will come and I will be ready to fight them,
despite their tanks and flamethrowers. Verily, I do not fear for my
body, but may the Lord have mercy when he weighs my soul.
***
Eva Heydrich's Note: The original manuscript was two pages, in
Polish, burned around the edges and apparently torn out of a
book - a diary perhaps - which I came upon shortly after my
grandfather's death in April 1995, when I was sifting
through some memorabilia he had collected while assigned to the
Wehrmacht, from 1938 to 1945. "September, 1939" had been scrawled
in the left margin, apparently in my late grandfather's hand. The
title is my own.

KUCINTA SETIA
1. La Nina
~~~~~~~~~~
Extreme dryness fades and paves way
Extreme dry tears, pour down the bay
Sea apples' mammon
Drips on persimmon
Drenched lemon
The Lord's way
Note: La Nina usually occurs at the end of the drastic El Nino
weather phenomenon. It brings excessive amounts of rainfall to tropical
countries from Peru to the Philippines.
2. Titan Arum
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peak breaks through eretz and gets bold
Goliath's tongue tosses, grinds gold
Wings that flee, poses
Away, neighbour's noses
Dead cap roses
Safety sold
Note: Titan Arum, or the "corpse flower" or devil's tongue, is the
smelliest flower in the world. It is a native of the Sumatran jungles in
Indonesia. The stalk of the corpse flower looks like a giant tongue
sticking out of soil. On the stalk is a cluster of a thousand flowers
that germinate from pollen scattered by insects as they fly away from
the flora's stench.
(Both poems La Nina and Titan Arum are clogyrnachs. Clogyrnachs are
English poems whose composition technique is derived from Welsh poetry.
A clogyrnach rhymes in the sequence AABBBA on six lines with syllabic
structure 8-8-5-5-3-3.)
3. Lev
~~~~~~
Leaves fall when rain falls
as the wind blows, the grounds in awe
to witness the miracles of God
waking up every soul with His shofar
His blood flows like His merciful ahava
as spring rain becomes downpour
as latter rain becomes gold pour
the inner soul yearns for a harvest
of pomegranates in a new season
to share and to succour
after El Nino
in the tevet of ahava
Rain falls on sacred day of God
His cherabims echo
He looks down with His hands at His folks
Knocking on each other's doors
His heart of gold, towards every poor soul
Note: Lev- Hebrew for "spiritual heart"; ahava- Hebrew for "love",
tevet- Hebrew for December; shofar- Hebrew for "sacred horn".
MARIE A. KAZALIA
El orchestrating the hats--
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
all a pretense---money spent on the wedding
the reason for the wedding
so the older sister could design
the color-scheme--
The bride and bride maids all wear
wide-brimmed-hats
match their dresses--
My mother showed me a picture
one attractive shot of the bride
wearing her hat
rather than a veil--
caught in a broad smile--how unusual
My mother scoops up pictures
like that one
to show visitors her beautiful daughters
Hoping for a compliment
how they take after their mother--
Older sis in the background
handling wedding details
hovering white cloud
refracting sun beams into rainbow colors
each bean on a bride's maid
in the wedding procession
so many hats alike
wide brims
could not
get close to each other
to hug
5/6/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA
she became a young woman overnight
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
recalled one of my earliest pleasures
going to my father----then my mother---
Or my mother would say--go ask your father
to blow up a balloon for me
or if I managed to inflate one myself
could not tie it
so have either one them put a knot in the end
to keep the air in
the long kind
pink, red, blue
reciting her list--
Most exciting moments in her life--
Expecting more to come her way
seeking
always lesbian sex and love
Occasionally men
when she needed to GET BACK AT her woman
When she needed a man,
broke
destroying herself
outside in
inside out
how could one year go by so fast
without loving sex
but nothing meaningful
Thinks she can find someone
just by looking
in the
lesbian personal columns
5/5/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA
looks-like chrome table-legs welded-together
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
pretends to live
like a big man, a man's man larger than life
a dick in his pants
so he needs sex everynight
Makes a point of revealing that
aspect-about-himself
No date for the evening
calls an escort service
from yellow page listings
Woman delivered to his door in an hour
all this he tells as a story to the woman he's after
But with a twist, Says,
something wrong with the condom
too small-couldn't get it--ON MY DICK
it broke so just gave up
Paid her--dropped her off in his truck
Who knows what really happened--who cares
Men always confess an inability
to sex another feme--to prove
sensitivity
or desire for that special someone
putting water in my gas tank
car jerking up to a stop
the man who drags a leg walking across
the street to my old Opel
starts it up says he'll take it
didn't have change from 60 dollars
so said: SODAS FOR THE KIDS?
meanwhile the cowboy has my tools
one day recognized them on his workbench
in his sculpture studio
Told him wanted them back
WANT ME TO MAKE-UP A LITTLE TOOL-KIT
FOR YOU? he offers his generosity
NO, I told him, I want MY tools back
That very sick loony woman
in Washington Apartment
stole one of my sculptures from the patio
Stuck it up in a tree day she moved out
Told someone she'd like to smash it
but maybe it's worth something
when all they had were tricks & deceptions
5/5/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA
recall significant
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
often I do recall that afternoon
this one in my heart & mind
Something merges in Mandarin class
reason not talking with other students
in all their social silliness
Hurried back to the train station
---dreamy arrived at my stop
That time
stays in my memory
climbing concrete stairs 5 flights
tiny apartment
across from Kai Tak airport
jets gliding down heavy
past my windows
to land on the runway
a continuation of the street I live on
Lost myself into computer files
alone at a table
paging through first 60 pages
combing/editing out bumps
brain & screen
I became a writer that day
I felt it,
So satisfied--
Alan Sargent told me
a couple months later
when I met him
I became a writer, from that page on
the moment that day
both days
significant
5/6/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA
medicated A-sexual
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(A-sexual meds)
the medication made me A-sexual
STINGY
from every aspect
my decisions have made sense
to me at the time
but to no one else
Years later
But in the end
works-out just fine
He had tattoos on his hands
telling me
THE MORE CONSERVATIVELY YOU DRESS
THE MORE BIZARRE(BEHAVIOR)
YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH
always in a suit
Now I don't know if that's true
or not -
or if my rad clothes
allow rad-er behavior
a heavy open mouth sleep
the sticky stuff
plaque on my front teeth
slightly drying--my clue
how I slept last night
5/7/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA
destroyed by envy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I've had a couple of different boyfriends
try to sabotage my art
Afraid--they confessed--I'd become successful
and leave and forget about them--
I WISH I HAD THAT MUCH CONFIDENCE IN MY WORK--
So I left each anyway
for trying to destroy my writing
which I equated as trying to destroy ME
Never believed one word of their envy
stated--
just an excuse
men taught to belittle
destroy
damage
all things
that come
from a woman
5/7/96
MARIE A. KAZALIA
Time thinking
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I need so much time to think
not just heavy thoughts left hanging
in the air--
as my father has done for decades
Occasionally transferring his ideas
into wood construction & paint----
I ricochet with thoughts
pinging around inside my skin
confusing---
Blurring my vision
I write them in ink
to see what I've been thinking of---
5/8/96
DAVE GITOMER
PORT AUTHORITY NYC, 1974
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
this bus pulled out, looking for
future or just next depot, a slight
honk, expressed the angry emotion
emitted by the paisley shorted motorist
who was just cut off, then flipping
angry bird, drove into the sunset,
blood red. this bus, this red bus,
moving toward, leaving from, exiting
returning in constant motion all at
once, this bus, this station, this town,
always looking, always looking for,
leaving or arriving, sometimes simultaneously
we are looking for what we already have,
and never really missed, this engine got
tired in the hunt, but on this bus, with
sticky red leather seats, slightly torn,
a tad frayed, longing for a day off.
we rolled through this tunnel, luckily
terrorists took this day off, it might
be Sunday, no bombs, even the prostitutes
were scarce, and the junkies were in a nod.
the wonder of the New jersey turnpike at
4 am, neon flashes, this young sailor
pukes on his lover, rough sex after effect,
I see the jets landing and leaving Newark
international, arriving and departing too,
the trains rumble down the sides of this
highway, the jets twinkle, synthetic strobe
stars, just grazing mother earth, while
linear train lamps, chug onward, a jet
narrowly misses this roof, of this bus,
I jot down a will and testament, and look
outward, westward, wondering, in the rays
of rising dawn, and sputtering fog, Pittsburgh
in 12 hours, I nod off again.
DAVE GITOMER
MIDDLETOWN WAITRESS, 2 PM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
road junction, truckers pass, the neon sign emotes,
a mild begging plea. this waitress waits, staring
off, aloof, dreaming. red tresses dangle on
white blouse, twisting spiral asps, her
sweating red face, a tad overly flush.
strolls over to the a/c, the belly
shows, on top of her stretch
pants, sensual then, sensual
now. painted over those thighs,
tales of innocence lost, still the beauty
speaks, entices, a tourist asks for French
toast and sausage. she turns glowingly to the
child, who votes for pancakes, orange juice...
"Are you form around here?" its asked.
the question too obvious, the gentlemen too sly.
"Yep born and raised!" she replies with a coy
smile. "But nothing ever happens here" a not
too obvious conclusion, she continues.
:Nothing ever happens in Middletown"
her baby begs to differ, with a slight kick
she winces and wonders about that fateful night.
DAVE GITOMER
RTE1 AND RTE 202
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
exxon station blaring red
complimenting passing tail lights
full moon peeking over aged oaks
canvass, background for traffic lights
mid-america breathes. passing clouds
exhale, restlessly seeking ocean's
brine and breadth.
MICHAEL MCNEILLEY
Drunk in the Afternoon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Drunk in the afternoon, as
the Budweiser salesman takes pictures;
the room is full of suits.
The last time I washed this shirt
was in the bathroom sink at Alice's place --
dried it with her blowdrier.
It looks pretty good
I must say.
Drunk in the afternoon it's
50 cent Budweiser night
at Millie and Al's, door prizes stacked in a booth.
The waitress has forgotten my name
but remembers to ask the waitress who hates me --
she's read my poetry.
Hell don't blame me, I told her,
I just write the stuff.
Drunk in the afternoon and all the bartenders are here --
bartenders from all shifts, it's a big promotion.
Only one of them is working --
she carries herself quickly from Budweiser cooler
to service bar. The rest of the bartenders are drunk,
drunk and rowdy, unusual for them not
unusual for me these days to be
drunk in the afternoon.
There's a blonde on a barstool,
she looks like the rest of my life.
They are passing out free tickets with each beer.
They'll have a drawing later for door prizes --
I'm passing out wolf tickets:
if I had a job I'd go to it but here I am,
nearly five and the government workers
begin to come in.
Drunk in the afternoon and
the blonde leaves, carrying money in her hand.
The Budweiser salesman slaps backs and places napkins
squarely under bottles.
The bartender is doing too much walking
back and forth behind the bar --
she turns up the juke to compensate
for the increasing volume of noise or conversation.
Drunk in the afternoon as the blonde returns --
she's done something with her money.
the Budweiser salesman has met another
Budweiser salesman; they deliver four free beers to
a table of women, but damn it they miscounted,
oops they say and deliver one beer more, five women look
much like four, a palindrome of women as it works both ways.
Drunk in the afternoon somewhat alone,
as Alice applies for a job with some asshole over dinner.
I can't even afford her dinner, much less a job.
Love without money must be more precise I suppose,
and Alice doesn't drink beer --
beer is bad for precision and the figure.
Drunk in the afternoon I pour down
my 50 cent beers collecting tickets for the door prize --
look how I've cleaned up my act,
no speed no phenobarbital no smoking --
just beer beer beer and I'm drunk but straight as
the drawing begins and I win two T-shirts --
I win a light-up wall sign.
I give the wall sign and one of the t-shirts away.
Tony's here and Ron, Barbara and Leslie but there's
no one to talk to. I put on my t-shirt,
it says something about Natural,
and I sit here waiting for you,
wishing you didn't have to see me
drunk in the afternoon,
knowing we will have to talk
this one time more.
And the lights recede, the people form a backdrop,
even the bathroom seems too far away --
and if you come here now you'll get
no closer than the rest. There's no solace no cure
no replacement for things we know not well enough to miss.
Drunk in the afternoon, our barstools sway
to the rhythm of some 50s song --
cracked voices sing along, it sounds okay to drunken ears.
We celebrate our various endings,
drain our beers and order more.
You can't beat the price --
Is it cold out? Is it cold out?
Try a little antifreeze --
and we're filled with nothing but beer and beer
and memories
as the sun sets
drunk in the afternoon.
WIL CLARK
High Water
~~~~~~~~~~
High, Dry and Cold like in a mountain pass
Reflecting pools in desolate surroundings
No trees. This place is almost impassible
Dappled sun in auguste low-ceilinged
Clouds and pock marks beset the
Splintered carcasses of great boulders
Wedged into delicate rock sheets by water simply changing
State... And riddling my understandings of high altitude.
High water mark of my life, altitude nausea
Higher than the canyon of the kings,
Our stand-off will be felt over those stagnant pools
High water pools like sounding boards listening to the sky
Frozen most of the year, unattainable by most individuals
At the zenith of a world condemned to silence
After a quick sequence of throaty booms
Some rock will hold water; some rock will not
15 July 1998
MICHELE COLLATINA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* Passchendaele (Ypres 1917)*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Passchendaele,
ti ricorderai di me dentro quel fango
ed un mare che sbarrava il mio ritorno
ma tante croci come me, avrai capito,
non si chiedevano il perche'
Passchendaele,
a novembre non avevo piu' un amico
solo il fango come un gelido vestito
Bruciava il cielo nella notte--
sulle croci disperate
e io sognavo di andare via
Ma la tua pioggia
cadeva lenta
sciogliendo il fango
sulle mie lacrime
- A diciott'anni la vita e' un filo di seta -
cantava all'alba il vento ancora
Passchendaele,
quel mattino mi mostrasti le tue lame
e io vidi che erano lame di fango
per tante croci come me, hai gia' capito,
qui nelle Fiandre il vero re
Passchendaele,
ti ricorderai di me sotto quel fango
e una madre che pregava il mio ritorno
Bruciava il cielo nella notte
sulle croci addormentate
e non potevo piu' andare via
Ma la tua pioggia
cadeva lenta
sciogliendo il sangue nelle mie lacrime
- A diciott'anni la vita e' un filo di seta -
cantava all'alba il vento ancora
Passchendaele,
please remember not to burn another sunrise
in that jolly lonely place,
and rest forever
Now sing, sing joyfully
because the tears have gone
sing, sing loud if you can
and think
you see the mud
and you see the rain
while you see the words carved on my grave.
*
Translation:
* Passchendaele (Ypres 1917) *
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Passchendaele,
you will remember me into that mud
and a sea that barred my return
but many crosses like me, you should have known,
were'nt wondering the reason why.
Passchendaele,
in november I had no more friends,
but only the mud as a icy coat.
The sky was burning in the night on the hopeless crosses
while I was dreaming to go away
But your rain was falling slowly
melting the mud on my tears
- At eighteen the life is a silk thread
was still singing at daybreak the wind
Passchendaele,
at that daybreak you showed me your blades,
and I saw that they were mud blades :
for many crosses like me, you have already known,
here in the Flanders the absolute king
Passchendaele, you will remember me under that mud
and a mother who was praying my return
The sky was burning in the night on the sleeping crosses
and I could'nt go away any more
But your rain was falling slowly
melting the blood in my tears
- At eighteen the life is a silk thread -
was still singing at daybreak the wind
Passchendaele,
please remember not to burn another sunrise
in that jolly lonely place,
and rest forever
Now sing, sing joyfully
cause the tears have gone
sing, sing loud if you can
and think
you see the mud
and you see the rain
while you see the words carved on my grave.
C.E. CHAFFIN
Demon Melancholy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His cold breath steams up my neck
like dry ice. I never see him approach.
He comes from darkness
where eyes forget they are eyes,
where speech has no conclusion
and touch is without resistance,
where music turns to noise
and selves are emptied
of history like milk bottles
below the ninth circle of hell.
I hear his wild dogs carol
in the burning church of my mind.
Pass the offering plate--
Is that a medicine vial, a gun?
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
the light has gone away.
C.E. CHAFFIN
Off Lithium
~~~~~~~~~~~
My brain isn't kryptonite for God's sake.
I'm glad I took off that lead helmet they said
I needed—yeah, like a hole in the head
for my original thoughts to leak out
like ear wax on my pillow,
stains of my dreams.
Drank a twelve-pack
and didn't feel it, slept three hours and woke refreshed
with the marvelous idea of making shoes
with living grass for insoles. I'll need seven pairs,
one for each day, let them Sabbath for six--
watch out Birkenstock man was meant to walk
on grass and soil not concrete and linoleum,
it's the shoe companies in bed with the tile
and concrete folks I'm sure a fresh idea
could bust that monopoly I gotta get
a patent lawyer.
Sometimes the earth seems so small
and overwhelmingly vulnerable to asteroids--
then so solid beneath my feet with its layers
of fossils in Montana where they dig
and the sky is big the stars are angels
and everything is what it's supposed to be,
you know, clockwork blue, my initials
carved in clouds my name whispered
through inaudible subatomic ether by crowds
all spiritually connected where the acorn
is the oak and the oak the acorn because
everything that rises must converge
Einstein knew but couldn't prove
Hawking gets closer as his body
is slowly absorbed by God--
am I talking too fast?
Of course you're smart enough
to follow my beechwood mind in winter
jingling bells with aluminum one dollar a pound
crushed by Clydesdales no one spends more
on television than Auggie Busch buying
slots for metaphors semaphores Texas whores
and bullfrogs saw a whorehouse once
in the middle of nowhere landing strip
cheap trailers cowboys congressmen
go there at light speed no cop could nab
my camera iris nothing by jumping the barbwire
immense as a thigh royal condition
neutrino shield shampoo cure for cretins
am I talking too fast?
*"For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but principalities and
powers."* --St. Paul.
C.E. CHAFFIN
News from the Front
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Moloch walks the earth
and Dagon and Baal
while Abaddon that great worm
directs the assault on the midnight docks
from the abyss: evil little gunboats
on dark waters, scarcely a ripple
searchlights avail nothing
here they come
up five flights of stairs
to consult the madwoman--
white dugs overstuffed,
belly a doughy pannus,
orifices slick with spirochetes.
In a smoky cocktail voice she says
"Bring me one o' them stiff righteous folk
that lusts to be free of form.
I'll find the serpent in a Quaker's pants,
show 'em what incarnation means!"
Poison mind-berries,
intelligence and counterintelligence
Who is that third that walks beside you?
always the possibility of subversion,
possession, mole or double mole
but he will slay them with the sword of his mouth
riddle their infantile phantasms with pure logic
shred their formless wills beholden to the dark
with a silver cheese grater
but he is not here
so it is us against the devil
in us, without us
always us
C.E. CHAFFIN
Vomiting Poetry
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(after Mark Strand's "Eating Poetry")
Half-digested chunks of metaphor
fly against the wall and stick.
Bile-soaked adjectives follow,
modifying the putrid Rorschach.
There is no surfeit like mine.
I am vomiting poetry.
The workshop leader is amazed:
"Look - an Auden fragment,
a piece of Ginsberg, a particle of Bly -
Do you have a weak stomach?"
I am too sick to respond.
I run from the classroom to the bathroom
and retch some more.
All is predigested now, cliché.
Acid conceits spew into the toilet,
ironies sink like turds.
"Are you all right?" the janitor says.
"Fine," I say, flushing the evidence.
"Do you ever read poetry?" I ask.
"No," he says.
"Why not?"
"I couldn't get past the words."
I lean upon his solid mop handle
and my stomach settles
C.E.CHAFFIN
On the Left Brain
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes I think my left hemisphere
swollen like some great infected testicle,
necrotic, convoluted and gray.
Its vein walls are thinner
than the membranes
lizards use to shield their eyes,
and inside blood flows so slowly
I consider it a miracle
that a single rational thought escapes.
The great vein of Galen sits
at the bottom of both hemispheres
like a distensible sewer line
and empties through the carotids
to the superior vena cava
into the heart's right chamber
where its effluent mixes with blood
from the bowels and extremities,
pools in the lungs
and red with oxygen races
from the left chamber back to everywhere else.
I tell you this because
the dream engine that pulls the body
has no conception of itself,
and though dependent on blood
is blind as an infected testicle,
as my metaphors bear witness
and your brain understands.
HAZEL KING
LISTENING TO THE WAVES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Listening to the sounds
of the wave's watery, froth tipped fingers
Surging to and fro
Washing the sand and
Leaving shadowy lines in their wake.
As the tide lifts the water skywards
There is a momentary pause
Before it crashes down, touches the shore
And recedes back into the ocean once more,
Drawn by some invisible hand
Without the strength to hold it in place.
A lone gull plundering the sand
for the night's spoils
Spreads it's pale grey wings
as though to take flight
flexing against the brisk sea breeze.
Walks on short stilted legs
towards the water's edge
Then utters a mournful cry as though lamenting
a lost love.
Coarse yellow sand
The grains of which in even a handful
cannot be counted
Flecked with shells, small sand-smoothed rocks
broken coral and seaweed with its pungent smell
in abundant, never ending supply.
The fresh sea air
brings new life
into tired lungs.
The sounds of the surf
Echoing time and time again
Peacefully drowning out
the sounds of every day living
Peace and tranquillity abounds
a soothing sound to tired and weary souls.
And then once more
it is time to go.....
Reality awaits
Easier to face with renewed strength
Both in body and soul
From this precious time spent
Listening to the waves.
8 March 1998
JANET KUYPERS
pop a pill
~~~~~~~~~~
take with meals
take three times a day
take with food or milk
take on an empty stomach
take a half hour before eating
take at the same time daily
do not operate heavy machinery
do not drink alcohol
do not mix medications
may upset stomach
may cause weight gain
may cause weight loss
may cause dizziness
may cause drowsiness
may cause headaches
may cause ulcers
do not skip medication
if problem persists consult your doctor
are you in pain
JANET KUYPERS
Private Lives I
the elevated train, Chicago, Illinois
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
why do these chairs
have to face
each other?
They say Americans
need their space
need their privacy
and here I sit
briefcase in lap
while he sits right
across from me
--staring
I can't look I can't
he has to see
my eyes darting
my tension
my privacy
in the edge of my vision
I see his dirty clothes
his dirty hair
dirty mind
will he watch me
get off
note the stop I take
watch me walk too
private lives II
Chicago, Illinois
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the people you see
he was running his hands along the pages
of his large magazine
like petting his cat
slowly, gently
caressing the skin of the animal
back and forth
his eyes staring off into space
was he staring at me
I wasn't afraid to look at him
I knew he couldn't see me
his hands sliding over the braille
page after page
his eyes
fixed
in my direction
I think he knew I was looking
Private Lives III
the elevated train, Chicago, Illinois
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The yuppies pile on the cars in their morning commute. It's amazing to
think that just hours before now these cars were littered, scattered
with an occasional bum, or a gang member, a drunk. Just a few hours
before this any one of these people would be too afraid to step on this
train.
I see two women step on to the car, each wearing full-length fur coats.
Now they have to cram into this full car with all these wool coats, I'll
bet they're furious. It would be so easy to spill my coffee on them.
I'll bet they don't even know what the animals they killed for this
looked like. How many animals would that be? Twelve? Fifteen? Oh, no
matter, that's what they're there for, just like this train, serving
its function, taking me where I want to go. Next stop. More yuppies
pile on to the train. Most stand without a rail to hold. I hear one
yuppie girl say to her lover, "we're L-surfing," right before the
train took a turn. All the yuppie suits trying to keep balance,
trying not to fall. I hear a yuppie boy say, it's just like my
living room, it's so spacious. You're the life of the party, friend.
You're in your suit, you'll go places.
I read a sign above my head that says, "Crime Stoppers pays up to
$1,000 for anonymous crime tips." All the signs above our heads
are for graffiti hotlines, pregnancy clinics, drug rehab centers.
Signs telling people not to carry guns. I remember afternoons on
the train when homeless men would walk from car to car through
the train, trying to sell a newspaper to the people commuting
home. In a few hours, when the yuppies are safe in their homes,
with their children safe tucked into their beds, the homeless man
will hide home too. One of the women with the fur steps off the train.
Private Lives IV
the elevated train, Chicago, Illinois
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
you can hear the gears
speeding up
slowing down
I have seen into other's lives
a woman with two children
one sitting in a stroller
one standing
get on the train
she pulls the scarf
from around her neck
the gloves off
she reaches into her bag
finds a square of folded tin foil
carefully opens
pulls out a tissue
folds the tin foil
puts it away
wipes the children's noses
the standing child sees writing
on the back of her Batman doll
"What does it say?" "Made in China."
"Is that his name?"
this was the window
I was looking through
LES STOREY
Calling
~~~~~~~
T'wixt twilight
and the onslaught
of a new moon's shadow
across the nap of mountains
that define the taut parameters
of that world
Hidden between the fall
of night and birth
of new stars
Disguised among the black
pine needles and the unseen
reach of swaying boughs
Between myself
and the fates
that call me.
LES STOREY
Genera
~~~~~~
I had felt my fate became me,
though, in retrospect
hearing my eulogy spoken
and sung by people
whose reaction defined me
more surely than
self awareness could afford
now i know
in my death
that my shallow life
afforded opportunities missed
loves lost
minuscule accomplishment
and only the hope
of passing on
the drive to surpass
fate
LES STOREY
Hybrid Husky
~~~~~~~~~~~~
When the mouse roars
in the wee hours my hybrid
husky trains for grander game
She worries at the moon silently
and tests a bigger bark at unseen
intruders, these alerted only by
weaker, neighborhood growls
My hybrid husky teething anxiously
improving fealty with each new lesson
and, gnawing at the bounds of affection,
forges her relationships with a steady
adolescent pressure
My hybrid husky tries patience,
knowing only feeding rituals and
attentions, these showered and lacking
discipline but never love
frustration but never blame...
expectation with limits somewhat less
than those suffered by real children.

C. P. CAVAFY
Waiting For The Barbarians
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why is everyone gathered in the forum?
The barbarians arrive today.
Why is no one in the senate?
Why are the senators idle not passing any laws?
Because the barbarians arrive today.
So what's the use of passing any laws?
When the barbarians arrive they will make the laws.
Why is the emperor up so early,
sitting at the city gate
on his imperial throne, crown upon his head?
Because the barbarians arrive today.
And the emperor is waiting to receive
their leader. He has a scroll to give him.
It lists many great titles and names
of honour.
Why are the two consuls here, and the
praeters with their embroidered red togas;
why are they wearing their amethyst bracelets,
their sparkling emerald rings, why their
expensive cane of studded silver and of gold?
Because the barbarians arrive today;
and it will impress and dazzle them.
Why do the orators not make
their grand eloquent speeches as usual?
Because the barbarians arrive today;
and they are bored with eloquence and orations.
Why this sudden unrest? (Their faces
have become sullen with confusion.)
Why is everyone leaving, returning home
with heavy thoughts?
Because it is night and the barbarians have not
arrived. And Messengers have come from the border,
saying the barbarians have gone away.
Now what will become of us without the barbarians?
We were all hoping they might at least some sort of a solution.
English version by Klaus J. Gerken

A New Age: The Centipede Network Of
Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul
Lauda

Come one, come all! Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established
just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A
place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and
learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
Even a chance to be published in a magazine.
The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993.
Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such
an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon
started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin
Board Systems.
We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since
the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means
that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative
user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.
Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede

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Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all
of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find
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All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993, 1994, 1995,
1996, 1997 & 1998 by Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
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